So, You Want to Sling Gourmet Cakes and Platters for a Living?
Picture this: it’s 2 a.m. in suburban Brisbane, I’m wearing slippers – non slip ofcourse, a mum bun neatly ties so no hair will drop into your food, and the kind of apron that once saw a better life as my Year‑10 art smock. I’m juggling a molten salted‑caramel drip while Siri reads out council food‑safety regulations like bedtime stories. Welcome to the glamorous, sparkly world of starting a home catering business and building your very own commercial kitchen. Spoiler: it’s basically Survivor, but with more filo pastry.
Grab a cuppa (or maybe a cheeky slice of my to dies for Sticky Date Pudding), because I’m about to unload the good, the bad, and the butter‑splattered truth about turning “I love feeding mates” into “I am now legally liable for strangers’ digestive happiness.”
Chapter 1: The Epiphany (a.k.a. The Great Cheesecake Incident)
Every origin story needs a catalyst. Mine was a kid’s birthday where the supermarket mud‑cake collapsed like a soufflé in a wind tunnel. In desperation, I whipped up a triple‑choc cheesecake studded with freckles and honeycomb crumbs. The parents lost their minds; the kids lost their manners. By Tuesday I’d fielded eight frantic texts begging for “one of those gourmet cakes and platters you do.”
Moral: One kitchen disaster = one light‑bulb moment. Also, never underestimate the marketing power of sugar‑drunk seven‑year‑olds.
Chapter 2: Research—AKA “Stalking the ATO Website at Midnight”
Before you fry your first arancini ball, you need paperwork—so much paperwork you’ll start laminating your dreams. In Queensland, food businesses require:
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A Food Business Licence from your local council (Brisbane City Council, I’m squinting at you).
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A Food Safety Supervisor certificate—yes, Janet, there’s a quiz.
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An ABN because—surprise!—the tax office needs its slice of your Black‑Forest too.
Cue weeks of Googling phrases like “hazard analysis,” “cool‑room ventilation,” and—my favourite—“is butter a liquid for transport purposes?” The answer is no, but my sanity certainly was.
Chapter 3: Plan Your Menu Before Your Menu Plans You
I started listing every dish I’d ever loved making, from miniature banoffee pies to a mezze platter that could feed the entire Broncos squad. Then reality slapped me with a spatula: humidity plus meringue equals marshmallow mush, and nobody wants mush at a wedding (well, maybe emotionally).
So I whittled the menu to items that:
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I can cook in 32‑degree heat,
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survive a pothole on the Gateway Motorway, and
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still look Instagram‑worthy at the destination.
Enter our heroes: Gourmet cakes and platters. They’re high‑impact, low‑stress, and flexible enough to suit every dietary interrogation known to Brisbane.
Chapter 4: The Kitchen Conundrum—When “Home” Isn’t Commercial Enough
Turns out, storing 15 kilos of mascarpone beside last night’s leftover chow mein is frowned upon. To design as a commercial kitchen at home, you’ll need to:
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Designate a separate food‑prep area (goodbye spare‑bedroom‑turned‑storage, hello stainless‑steel paradise).
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Install commercial‑grade fixtures: splash‑back tiles, double‑bowl sinks, grease traps—basically bling for your benchtop.
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Buy appliances blessed by the gods of capacity: a fan‑forced oven the size of a small car and a fridge that could hide a rugby prop.
Hot tip: Brisbane City Council’s “Home‑Based Business Code” is your new bedtime reading. It dictates everything from car‑parking to noise (whisking at 5 a.m. apparently counts as noise—who knew?).
Chapter 5: Budgeting—From Champagne Taste to Cask‑Wine Wallet
Let’s talk numbers (don’t run—there’s cake at the end):
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Food Safety course: $400
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Commercial mixer capable of kneading dough and possibly solving world peace: $2,000
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Stainless benches, sinks, shelves: $4,500
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Cool room (because Brisbane summers) or air con: $6,000
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Unexpected plumbing because your 1970s pipes sobbed and gave up: $2,200
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Therapy sessions after seeing your credit‑card bill: priceless
I sold two vintage guitars, a designer handbag, and my soul (briefly) on Facebook Marketplace. But hey, you can’t bake baguettes with regret.
Chapter 6: Fit‑Out Follies—Builder Bingo
Hiring trades in Brisbane is like Tinder: swipe right, pray they show up, and hope they don’t ghost you mid‑demo. My fav builder arrived with a pet macaw (true story) that cheer‑screeched over every drill bit. The electrician wired my oven so well it took out half the suburb. On inspection day the council officer raised an eyebrow at the parrot feathers in the extractor fan. Character, mate.
Chapter 7: Branding—Slapping a Personality on Pastry
Here’s where the fun sprinkles on:
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Name: Something sunny (hello, Sunny St), obvious, and available as a .com.
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Tagline: “Get Your Yum On” because life’s short—order seconds.
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Logo: Cheeky, bold, looks fab embroidered on aprons and scribbled on cake boxes which I am in the process of doing.
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Socials: Instagram first (cakes sell themselves visually), Facebook for the locals, TikTok for the kids who think sponge is a filter.
Remember: diners eat with their eyes, but they click with their thumbs.
Chapter 8: Suppliers—Make Friends with the Market Stall People
Nothing screams gourmet like produce you can brag about. I befriended stallholders at Rocklea and Jan Power’s, who now text me when strawberries hit peak sweetness or avocados actually ripen like civilised fruit. Build these relationships; they’re your secret spice blend.
Pro tip: shout them out on socials. Reciprocity is tastier than cream cheese frosting.
Chapter 9: Pricing—The Existential Dread of Putting a Number on Joy
The formula I landed on:
(Ingredient Cost + Labour Time × Hourly Rate + Overheads) × Profit Margin
Then add 10 percent, because someone will definitely ask for “just a little gold leaf, nothing fancy.” Stand firm. Your talent isn’t a two‑for‑one voucher.
Chapter 10: Marketing Mayhem—Launch Like a Lamington Cannon
For opening week I offered a “Brissy Bites Box”: mini gourmet cakes and platters sampling everything from passionfruit pavlova bites to charcuterie cones. I DM’d local parenting bloggers, bribed them with sugar, and boom—orders exploded faster than a molten‑centre fondant.
Don’t forget:
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Google My Business—get on the map, literally.
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Local SEO—sprinkle “Brisbane,” “QLD,” and “food” like hundreds‑and‑thousands all over your website copy.
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Email list—because algorithms are fickle, but Aunt Cheryl checks her inbox religiously.
Chapter 11: The First Big Gig—Catering a 21st in 95 % Humidity
Picture me, fanning a cupcake tower while the groom’s uncle taps the air‑con thermostat like it owes him money. My newly christened cool‑room van (affectionately named “The Chill Pill”) parked heroically under a jacaranda. The cakes survived, the platters dazzled, and I only cried twice (both happy tears, promise).
Takeaway lesson: over‑insulate, over‑label, over‑estimate portion sizes. Someone’s Auntie Glenda will remove Prosciutto as if it’s her personal calling.
Chapter 12: Scaling Without Spilling the Ganache
Once orders snowball, consider:
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Hiring help—a fellow cake nerd or platter artiste. A wanna be chef like myself.
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Wholesale contracts with local cafés (Brisbane’s stuffed with brunch spots craving dessert cabinets).
Document every process: recipe cards, allergen logs, cleaning schedules. Future‑you will thank past‑you when casual staff don’t confuse salt with sugar. (It happened once. We do not speak of The Pretzel Brownie Day.)
Chapter 13: The Feel‑Good Feels—Community Vibes & Generosity
We donate leftover platters to a nearby shelter every Friday night. It’s on‑brand, on‑mission, and honestly the liveliest focus group you’ll ever meet. Nothing edits a menu faster than blunt feedback from a hungry teenager. Plus, generosity tastes good.
Chapter 14: Hiccups, Headaches, and Heroic Wins
Hiccup: The day the dishwasher flooded and floated the fondant figurines like pool toys.
Fix: Wet‑vac, hairdryer, frantic prayer to Saint Delia Smith.
Headache: A salmon‑mousse recall that turned out to be a typo—cilantro, not salmonella.
Fix: Proofread. Then proofread again.
Heroic win: A corporate CEO declared my lemon‑myrtle cheesecake the “ROI of desserts.” I’m adding it to the business cards.
Final Bites of Wisdom (on a Monogrammed Napkin)
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Permits before profiteroles. Paperwork is less scary than penalties.
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Keep it niche. “Gourmet cakes and platters” is clear, crave‑worthy, and scalable.
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Invest in the right kit. Your mixer is your wing‑man; treat it like royalty.
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Sweat the branding. People remember the vibe long after the crumbs are gone.
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Laugh—loudly and often. Because when Brisbane’s summer southerly melts your ganache, crying just makes it saltier.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a croissant‑crusted quiche demanding a glam shoot for the ’Gram. May your ovens stay hot, your cool rooms colder, and your gourmet cakes and platters forever the talk of Brisbane.
Get Your Yum On—see you on Sunny St!
